Home 2

I saw the eviction sign too many times
And yet my home was just
No squatter’s house. I lived in her, painted her walls
Fired the furnace, repaired the split timber
Nailed little picture frames, square perimeters
Of sheer beauty.

I had overstayed my visit. Now I needed
To deracinate the tap root, a foundation
Of stone and sand. I was grappling with an exit sign
Hurting from an exit wound. I walked out
From a little door in front, unknowing I will never see again
The varnish on her timer, the feel of her walls
Nor the creaking sounds she makes
As I leave behind footsteps in time.

And now I was a homeless man.
A drifter of fate. Some driftwood.
Learning a lesson the hard way
That home is not just a walled enclosure
It is a cathedral of the heart.

And I learnt that I was no high priest, just a pilgrim
With no more prayers in my heart.

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